Monsters Under the Bed
by Phoebsfan
Summary: He's not good at this. This was always Johanna's area of expertise. He knows how to deal with scraped knees and monsters. She knew how to deal with broken hearts… Ficlet for 5x03


She never wanted a nightlight, this brave strong woman that his lovely little girl has blossomed into. It strikes him as the faceless, nameless mass of people shuffle by them both, offering condolences and well wishes. All he sees is his little girl, no longer a girl but a young woman struggling to keep it together.

It's always been this way with her, his little fighter. She's always kept her pain and fear locked up tight, as if hiding it away could make it less real. Too proud to ask for him to check under her bed for monsters, too stubborn to admit that sometimes she might need a nightlight.

So he's always done it for her.

It was easier when she was that innocent four year old with pigtails and that sweet little grin that melted his heart. Then her problems revolved around childish things, things fixed with a kiss on the forehead or a bedtime story. So easy to look under her bed or in her closet to give her that peace of mind she would never ask for.

When he looks at her, sometimes he wonders how the time could pass so quickly. Now he wonders how any time could ever be enough. He worries that he won't be enough to keep the monsters away. That somehow he's already failed her. All of them.

He can never make this loss better. No words will lessen that dark cloud of grief that hovers over her. And knowing his daughter, he worries it will consume her. He's afraid it will consume him too.

She still needs her mother. Despite her independent streak and her brave front, he knows this is a loss she will not be able to walk away from. It has shaken her very foundation and turned his idealistic fighter into a cautious wounded bird.

His Katie would never say so, but he knows inside she is bleeding.

He wishes he could give her something to make it better, but there is nothing to give. No way to make this blow lighter. His wife, her mother... she would know what to do. She always did. Always knew how to make everything better.

He's not good at this. This was always Johanna's area of expertise. He knows how to deal with scraped knees and monsters. She knew how to deal with broken hearts... and...

She's gone.

She's gone and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

He tries to think about what she would tell their daughter. About how she would somehow find a way to make them both smile. Find some hidden joy to counterbalance the overwhelming burden of pain and guilt.

He doesn't know what he's doing when he takes his daughter's hand and they leave the dark gathering. He doesn't know where they are going, only that he can't watch his little girl stand there with a brave face and dry eyes any longer. He hasn't been her hero since she hit puberty, but he wants to protect her from herself. Wants to stop the world for a minute and let her cry if she needs to. Take her in his arms and tell her that somehow they'll get through this.

Even if he isn't sure himself.

She doesn't fight him or pull away. Doesn't storm off in a huff exclaiming how unfair it is. Doesn't tell him he's wrong or that it will never get better. That it's her life and she'll do what she wants with it as she climbs onto the back of some less than desirable boy's motorcycle.

In that moment she is his little girl again, and though this can't be fixed with a bandaid, he thinks he knows how to make the day just a little more bearable.

He takes her to Coney Island. It seems fitting. Empty and cold. Abandoned with winter's cold chill seeping through the boardwalk, collecting in the crevices, coating the world in ice. A ghost town. Something once great.

They walk hand in hand along the beach, like she is still his little girl. Like he can put her world back together.

And just like when she was a child, she's lets go of his hand and scurries off to pick up some piece of debris. Examine a shell here, try and skip a stone there. But always returning to show him, to pick up his hand again, like that trusting, needing child she once was.

They spend the afternoon exploring. Not saying much of anything. Ignoring the chill that sinks into bone and bites at red cheeks. Her black dress sandy at the knees, windblown hair, and a little smudge of black around her eyes where he thinks she might have rubbed away a tear or two.

And just like when she was a child he takes her treasures, and together they create something. Something more precious than the bits of stick and stone. Something bound together with more than kelp or twine. The sand cold and wet under them. The sun hidden in the gray winter sky.

With his arm wrapped around her, he becomes her hero once more. The man who can stop time, save the world, and will always keep her safe. Somehow on that ugly, dead beach they find something beautiful and alive.

When her teeth chatter and icy water splatters her dress, he guides her back from the brink. Buys her hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows and tells her stories about how great Coney Island used to be. Fills the air with meaningless conversation that somehow means more than all the words of the million friends and loved ones who had gathered with them hours earlier to mourn a loss they couldn't understand. Bitter, numb fingertips warming against a disposable cup.

Eventually they make their way home, he tucks her in bed, their little stick figure on the table beside her childhood bed. She smiles and tells him she is fine and not a little girl anymore. He nods and tells her goodnight as he turns out her light.

Then like he has for so many nights of her life, he leaves the door open and the hall light on. Because his little girl has always been too proud for a nightlight.


End file.
